The Truth
by I LOVE BLUE COVE
Summary: Tag to "Pilot", sorta. Jarod ponders the idea of truth and how it applies to him.


Beyond the motel window, somewhere out of sight, the sun was setting; the light slowly sapping from the sky along with it.

Jarod settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze attracted to the sight. It was not an uncommon occurrence, yet the sight was unfamiliar to him; as unfamiliar as many, many things he'd discovered since his escape. Things he'd known about, things he'd dreamed about, things he'd tried hard to remember…

A slow frown crossed his features. He had tried to remember, hadn't he? He took a careful breath and let himself think. If – just a little bit – he'd not tried as hard as he might have to remember those things, if remembering would only have hurt him, would only have dragged him down, back into a past that was no longer practicable, he wondered, was that a bad thing? Was that the same as giving up?

Or was it remaining realistic?

But his parents-

_No!_ he thought. He should _never_ have allowed himself to forget _them_! _Never!_ Forgetting his parents, he realized, had been the biggest mark of how much he'd allowed himself to resign himself to a life spent away from them, away from everything he _should have_ been able to experience! Forgetting them had been the biggest betrayal of all: a great, big signpost announcing that he'd given up, and given in; that he'd stopped fighting!

Perhaps, in a way, he was fighting so hard now because he hadn't fought then. Because, deep down, he'd known that he should never have given in! Should never have surrendered!

Either you believed something or you didn't.

Stifling a sigh at his insularity, he reminded himself that that wasn't how it worked in the 'real world'. In the real world, complications worked their way into even what seemed, outwardly, to be the most simple of decisions.

To survive what you did, he told himself sternly, you had to let go of your old life. You had to craft a new life. There's no reason to feel ashamed, you were only doing what was called for to survive and remain reasonably whole.

He gave a brief laugh. He wasn't so sure the term 'reasonably whole' could be applied to what he was, to what he'd allowed himself to become.

What you were _forced_ to become, the stern part of him came back. What choice did you have?

He would have replied with, There is always a choice! were it not for a recent conversation he'd had that now came back to him in flood proportions. He'd implored Gwen, "Just tell the truth."

Just tell the truth…

He'd asked Gwen how she could possibly justify covering up for Alan Trader when, as a consequence of his actions, impaired by alcohol and his rotten attitude toward his profession, he'd paralyzed Kevin Bailey, confining the boy to a wheelchair for the remainder of his life.

In the end, it had come out that it had been her past that had allowed her to justify allowing herself to be coerced into silence, into covering up for Trader's mistake, into allowing him to continue behaving in the same manner as he had that had ended in Kevin's paralysis.

She had been frightened of losing the few small good things that she'd managed to get for herself that: a good man, a little boy; love.

But, in the face of her past, in the face of the person she'd once been, she hadn't trusted that love to see her through, she hadn't trusted that goodness to stand the test of the truth. And, in not trusting in her newfound happiness, she'd allowed herself to be sucked back into the past, allowed herself to as good as become the person she'd once been, the person she'd tried so, so hard to escape.

He'd said, "I'd say she paid her debt. And I'd ask her why she didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth." And in his next breath, "At least that's what I think I would do."

Gwen, he remembered, tears in her eyes, had implored him to understand, to empathize, "You don't know how scared I am."

And he had said, "I think I do."

Returning from his thoughts, he dragged his eyed from the darkened window. Far away, he'd missed it all anyway, it seemed.

Dropping his eyes from the window, he noticed that his hands were shaking. "I think I do," he whispered to the darkening room.

When he finally found his parents – When_, not _if, he told himself firmly – would he be able to confess the truth to them, would he be able to let go and move on? Was he moving on now, or was he playing into the past as much as he had as a boy? Desperately gripping to the past in a manner that went beyond taking heed, that became a terrible fear that letting go would lead to a sudden, draining emptiness; a deep dark void?

The future, he told himself, as he lay in the dark, his eyes closed in effort to find some rest, was not empty; it was only waiting to be found, to be filled. It wasn't lightless, hopeless; it shone, it beckoned to be yearned for, to be wanted; it said, Come to me! I'm waiting! Don't give up on me! It will get better.

A small, hot tear slipped from underneath his closed eyelid and trailed down his cheek.

_It will get better_, he thought fiercely, and this time, _nothing_ was going to stop him from believing it would. This time, he was holding fast to his resolve; he wasn't letting go for anything.

_I will find you._

* * *

**Legal note: Dialogue taken from the season one episode, "Pilot". _The Pretender_ remains the property of its creators, writers and producers, etc.; and certainly not me.**

**Feedback is welcome.**


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